


Keys

by MorticianMax



Category: Herbert West - Reanimator - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Also the mature tag is for description of violence and very mild sexual content., Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, The character death tag is for Herbs since this post-canon.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorticianMax/pseuds/MorticianMax
Summary: I had not expected to write another account of my life. Foolishly, I had thought my life free of the dreadful Herbert West, as though I could ever fully escape. How fatuous could I have been to think West himself was not of the same nature as his creations; that he would not return, an uneasy facsimile of his former self, desperately attempting to crawl back to his empty sepulcher. And even more, how could I not have realized that despite where he died, where I watched the spragmos of his unforgiving horde, his true open grave would always be my heart.
Relationships: Narrator (Herbert West - Reanimator)/Herbert West
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Keys

**Author's Note:**

> I tried my best to mimic Lovecraft’s style here, so hopefully I did a well-enough job at it! This fic exists to give the narrator a sense of closure while still ostensibly retaining the original ending.   
> I also am going with the assumption that the narrator is a little in love with Herbert, mostly due to his descriptions of him and his actions towards him.  
> More comments on the fic are at the bottom, so I hope you read through and enjoy!

I had not expected to write another account of my life. Foolishly, I had thought my life free of the dreadful Herbert West, as though I could ever fully escape. How fatuous could I have been to think West himself was not of the same nature as his creations; that he would not return, an uneasy facsimile of his former self, desperately attempting to crawl back to his empty sepulcher. And even more, how could I not have realized that despite where he died, where I watched the spragmos of his unforgiving horde, his true open grave would always be my heart.

It was, as it was every time with West, a gentle start. I had been released from questioning, acquitted of West’s murder by lack of evidence— no body, no weapon, flimsy motive. I was partially resentful that the court dismissed the idea that I could be acrimonious towards him despite my years of fear, and even more so resentful that it was true. Despite my insistence of loathing and terror at the man, surely enough to raise a brow towards me upon West’s disappearance, I was too deeply submerged into the life we’d created that I could never crawl my way out. I was a foolish little frog still sitting in the pot I’d been plopped into as though it wasn’t boiling me alive.

On the night that spurred me to write once more, I had returned from a moonlit walk to the desolate house. It was still the same house I had bought with West, the large colonial overlooking an ancient graveyard, modified to accommodate our laboratory in the basement. After the investigation of the incinerator and the aforementioned horrid lab, I had locked that cellar door with a hefty padlock. It would have done nothing to stop the return of the horde if they decided I too should repent for my assistance to their reanimation, but the presence of the insubstantial lock provided my mind with solace. Retrospectively, I should have placed that lock on the front door. As I hung my coat onto the rack, I dully noted the presence of a familiar coat on the peg adjacent to the one I tended to use. I thought nothing of it, so accustomed to seeing it when returning home that it was only when I tugged open the door to the study that I froze in cognizance. Every vessel of blood felt like it had been overtaken by ice as I nearly flew to the cellar, catching the lock in my trembling fingers. Still clasped shut, ever vigilant, the object that once guarded my sanity was now threatening it as I questioned its betrayal. I scurried to my quarters to yank the accursed key from where I had stuffed it in my drawers, flinging open the doors with a loud crash of the knob hitting the wall. The key became irrelevant to me as my suspicions of the padlock faded.

From my bed, a startled form sat up, blinking at me languidly. It was as though those cold blue eyes belonged to Medusa, the way I choked up under their gaze. A thin brow was slightly quirked in the calm judgement typically reserved for when I had done something particularly derisible. Despite myself, I felt red hot embarrassment spread through me, quenching the previous cold fear. Those cursed rose lips— those lips that had asked horrors of me, asked me to carry bodies, to desecrate graves, to vivisect countless, to follow him to war and back —opened to speak again. That wispy voice gently inquired as to if I simply planned on staring slack-jawed all day, though with wonted serene eloquence I am impuissant to replicate. With that, the curse of stillness was lifted from my form. I closed the door behind me, approaching the revenant reposed in the bed. His eyes watched me with a myopic approximation— I noted his spectacles neatly folded on the bed-side table. He had never aged beyond our days at Miskatonic, yet he looked paradoxically younger now. It was the eyes, I understand with hindsight— over our 17 years, I had seen the gradual shift of a bright vivaciousness to an oppressive paranoia in the eyes of my companion. Those eyes that I had caught obsessively assessing perceived threats were restored to the delicate curiosity of our first meeting. It was as though the Herbert West before me was not the man I had freshly lost, but the boy lost 17 years ago after our first experiment befouled him to Sisyphean cupidity. A pallid hand placed itself onto my cheek, the slender fingers caressing me in a soothing motion. The anguished question of when had he last touched me felt like a gunshot as it struck my mind. His lips pulled to a smile too warm for the face of an ignominious man. My name was muttered reverently in his hushed lull, and forthwith all the repulsion I had mustered towards him dissipated. My hands trembled when I reached towards him. I cupped his cheek in my hand and gently pushed it to the side, West’s eyes boring into me. He kindly kept his head where I had directed it, and did not protest when I fumbled with the buttons of the dress shirt he was still in. He did laugh quietly, justifying his strange state of dress as a consequence of his extreme fatigue. The explanation may well have been in lost tongues for how little it registered to me, so transfixed I was as I peeled open the cloth to reveal the soft skin, marred by only a few unfortunate scars of our misadventures. I ran a hand along his throat in disbelief. I had watched that head be torn from that torso. My own eyes had witnessed the final look of fear, the mouth twisted in a scream of my name to futilely beg for help, the yanking of bones from their joints, the stretch and snap of skin, the gushing of blood from detached limbs, the almost clinical collection of parts. Yet the skin my fingers trailed across, while peppered with some marks from our time as surgeons Great War and our experimentations, bore no memory of that dismemberment. He was as I remembered from the day he died, still looking no older than when we had met.

It brings me no joy to describe what happened next. Part of me still be believed that we could have carried on as though nothing had happened. We could have lived peacefully in that house, my vigilant padlock reminding us of why we could never venture into the cellar again. We could have spent the rest of our lives together, surrendering ourselves to the old age and eventual demise we had once so bitterly fought against. I bitterly realize that I could not bear it if we did.

West’s—  _ Herbert’s  _ —hand was resting atop mine as I felt his neck, his face interested but unperturbed by my groping. I looked into that sterile blue that haunted me to Hell and back— that was my personal Hell even if a spiritual one never existed —and found myself terrified by the look of absolute trust that stared back. Had he simply been so certain of my enthrallment he had no reason to doubt me? The question left my mouth before I’d even realized I’d vocalized it, surprising us both. His face fell, a change so slight that to the eye untrained in the manner of Herbert West, it would’ve been an indecipherable difference. After so many years, I had memorized every minuscule change in his expressions. The hand atop mine felt heavier when he spoke, the already quiet voice barely a breeze yet cut through me like the sharp winter wind when it asked my opinion on his trust in me. Words tumbled from me as though he’d popped a cork off a shaken bottle of champagne. My fear of the examining, hungry looks he’d given me in the recent years, the overwhelming oppression of how easily my morals bent for him, the spellbound feeling he’d rendered me with that could have only originated by manipulation. I had managed, after so long, to leave him speechless. As he fought for words, he slid away from me on the bed, a gesture I interpreted as the beginnings of an escape until he patted the now empty space. Dutifully, I sat down where instructed, the irony of my continued obedience— in my own quarters, nonetheless —nearly palpable. West had leaned back against the headboard. He studied the ceiling with a lackluster commitment, lips parting and closing as he tried to find words. Finally, he rubbed the bridge of his nose and turned to me. “I love you. I thought you knew that.”

The simple phrase drove me madder than any of our experiments ever had. I implored him explain the queer studying of my form, to which he averted his eyes, responding that he found my form rather attractive, that he thought I was already aware of his disposition. A sardonic grin pulled at his lips. He agreed it was rather queer studying. The joke caught me off guard, and I laughed despite myself. What of the manipulation, bending my mind and morals to his will, I sniped. He asked when he’d manipulated me, the question not a retort but a sincere concern. My mouth dried as I desperately racked my brain for instances. The war was the best example, I decided, telling him as much. He was quiet. He nodded, it was quite cruel of him to have asked me to accompany him. He didn’t want to leave me alone, he admitted, he was afraid if we were separate I would move on. He asked if I simply felt compelled to cohabitate with him, if I had actually wanted any of our life together. I paused. Had it ever crossed my mind to simply walk out? Retrospectively, there were instances I wished so desperately I had got up and left, but in the moment... In the moment I was always excited for everything we did, to do research, to experiment, to live together, to assist him. I shook my head in the negative, and his face softened. Why  did I keep following him so constantly, so blindly, I begged, frustrated tears pricking at my eyes. I continued to implore him, why did I so painfully want to please him, why did I want to stay beside him even when not experimenting, why did I settle into a life together so easily? With a deft finger, he wiped away the gathering fluid. As ever, his voice was smooth and unwavering, though it seemed especially as matter of fact then. “You love me too.”

I was shocked to the core to realize it was true. I found myself weeping; at some point in my surprise West had pulled my face against his chest and begun petting my hair in soothing strokes. I could feel the uncanny chill of his skin against my cheek, realizing his shirt was still open from when I’d searched for any signs of his demise. I was trembling harder, desperately trying to reconcile his unscathed return to torment my emotions with the cruel death I’d witnessed. I was speaking into his skin, asking him what had happened, why was he here, how was he here, until he pulled me up by the jaw to look at me, eyes more focused now that I was within his range of vision. There was a disquietude as he scrutinized me, one quite similar to the hesitance I’d seen when he was adjusting a plan to accommodate for an unseen variable. A sense of finality seemed to wash over him before he pulled me forward to press our mouths together. I melted easily in his clutches, letting him tug me closer, closer to him as though we were trying to meld together. I wished we could have, perhaps then I would have understood everything better, but we were oil and water. I had the morbid thought of having him on the slab in the cellar, peeling him open to examine the internal organs like he was one of our specimens, caressing the still pumping heart, tearing it from its place, trying to crawl into his ribcage. It was logistically impossible, but I was filled with a frenzied need to be as close to him as possible. Was this what he was feeling when I had felt those examining eyes turned on me? Had he imagined me prone and wanting, waiting to be ripped into until we were one entity? I had no way of asking him, preoccupied as I was. I felt resentful of the sudden monsoon of emotions he’d unleashed upon me. How could he have dared? What nerve did he have to suddenly turn up, rip out my heart, and show it to me? I could have gone my entire existence pretending I was only drawn to him by fear, but he had to come along and rip out the rug from under my pleasant fantasy. In a confused haze of emotion, it was all I could do to try in anguish to slot us together like puzzle pieces. I found that we fit together quite well.

When the fever had subsided, Herbert was laying with his head on my chest, a svelte finger absentmindedly tracing pattens on my bare flesh. My hand was stroking his yellow hair, which had become quite ruffled. He murmured something I hadn’t quite caught, waiting for a response before looking up at me to repeat himself. “I love you,” he paused before adding more: “I hope you won’t forget it now that you’ve finally realized it.” With a smile, I swore not to. His perpetually neutral expression cracked into a slight smile, though his eyes seemed sorrowful. He kept speaking after that, uncharacteristically talkative. He asked me to stay awake a bit longer with him, a request I nodded to without much thought. Were I not so tired, I might have been concerned by his words as he rambled on. Unthinkably, he apologized for everything we’d done for his experiments, wishing he’d kept shut the door to undeath. I had retorted half-heartedly that the door was quite shut now, and I had a rather cumbersome padlock to keep it that way. Herbert had chuckled at that, pointing out that only one lock seemed a rather banal response to the threat we’d unleashed. I riposted that I would look into finding a second lock for the front door as well. His laugh was hollow. He responded that no matter how many safeguards I could hide behind now, he wished the experiments had failed earlier or had never been conceived of, and we instead had a normal life together. With a slight grin I could feel against my skin, he snorted that, all the same, he’d get me a new lock if that was all it took. His cheeriness— whether for show or not —withered as he added wistfully that he wished most of all that he’d said that he loved me sooner. I was bemused by his sudden airing of regrets, though I stayed awake as long as I could listening to him. He said he hoped I would be happy. His voice was beginning to quiver. That he missed me when he was gone. That he hoped I didn’t miss him. He repeated that one twice, though I certainly hadn’t realized it at the time. I muttered back that I always missed him, candid in my fatigued state. By then, I was at the precipice of unconsciousness, and was not fully registering his words. I could feel something hot and wet begin dripping on my chest as I drifted off.

When I awoke, Herbert West was one again gone. I was unsurprised at first, as it was not unusual for him to wake before me. I’d often been startled from slumber by the sound of coffee being prepared in the kitchen or Herbert pacing the halls and muttering. Groggily, I rose to investigate. I had half a mind to usher him back to bed upon retrieving him, though upon checking the clock I became disappointed at the late hour. Regardless, I did want to find him. In the clarity of the dawn, I was finding myself quite perturbed by some of our discussion the night prior. In a dressing gown, I checked the room he usually occupied first. Perhaps he’d become uncomfortable and retired to his own quarters. The room was as still and silent as how I had left it, however, filling me with a sense of vague dread. I drifted down the stairs, checking my immediate surroundings before sneaking to check the padlock. I didn’t inherently distrust the man, but I knew him well enough to know he couldn’t help himself. The lock stared back, easing the cloud of trepidation that still hung over me. At the very least, he had not— yet —returned to the cellar laboratory. The kitchen came next in my lax investigation; quite surprising to me was the complete lack of any evidence that would point to recent activity. The study, then, I reasoned, though it too was empty, door still wide open from yesterday. Puzzled, I tried the parlor. Perhaps he had gone to examine his equipment, intending to take up his practice again? Once again, I was greeted by a desolate room, though the one noticeable change caused a pit in my stomach. The coat adjacent to mine was absent, and a thin layer of dust was present where it should have been, as though nothing had hung there at all. He must have turned the rack at some point, I reasoned, approaching it; he must have rotated it and a different peg that we tended not to use was now facing me. I tried not to think of the previous night’s sudden prolixity as I examined the rack. The pit in my stomach gaped wider. Aside from the one clutching my coat, each peg held a thin layer of dust. He must have taken his coat and left, I rationalized, blatantly ignoring the dust. I found myself rushing to the front door in a manner that reminded me of how Herbert and I had attempted to rush from our first experiment while still remaining inconspicuous. I gripped the door handle before I properly looked down to undo the latch, startled by a sudden change. Clasping closed a new latch, was a sturdy padlock, the key left inside.

**Author's Note:**

> It is up to your own speculation what West is in this fic; if the narrator misremembered the death as he had feared, if West is a ghost, if it’s a strange dream, etc. Luckily, the original story isn’t divorced from the supernatural, so anything is possible! Mostly, I wanted to just give him some finality, even if he still has no certainty... It’s a bit contrived, but I hope it’s still enjoyable!   
> Please comment any thoughts you might have (positive or negative), I’ll be trying to actually respond this time!


End file.
